A Sad Starbucks Love Story
by rhythmeticVagabond
Summary: Matthew Williams is dying. Despite his dying status, he's decided to live his life while he still has life left. This decision changed his life more in his numbered days than his disease has in his entire life. But, while these changes seemed good on the surface, will they end up coming back to hurt him?
1. Chapter 1

It was late in my fifteenth year of living that I was diagnosed with cancer. Lung cancer, to be specific. Now, I'm not gonna bore you with details, but let's just say it sucks to not be able to breathe. My lungs can barely take in enough air, so I have to lug around a cart of oxygen with me everywhere I go. I wouldn't be surprised if i were slowly developping muscle on my usual cart-pulling arm.

No, that is not an innuedo for anything. Get your mind out of the gutter.

It was early in my sixteenth year I began to get worse. My lungs filled with fluids so much that I practically lived in the hospital. I knew and still know some of the doctors and nurses personally. I still go frequently, but not for fluid in my lungs so much anymore. I moreso go just to get check-ups to make sure the cancer isn't getting too bad.

I haven't gotten too bad over the past few years, I'd say. Thats just me though. The doctors are very worried.

It was about midway through my seventeenth year that I was diagnosed with depression. The knowledge that you're dying and can do nothing about it isn't easy for a teenager to take in, and I had a hard time accepting the fact that my end was coming sooner than I'd ever anticipated. I wasn't the suicidal kind of depressed. I wasn't that worse off in my mental state. I was just uncontrollably and constantly sad. I cried myself to sleep almost every night, and I lost motivation to do everything. Even the things I loved.

What's the point in doing things if you're dying quicker than everyone around you?

It's now early in my nineteenth year, and I've accepted that I'm dying. I still cry. A lot. And I still don't do much. But I've accepted that my end is inevitable, already written into a set date in time that I don't know the exacts of. All I know is it's coming soon.

The doctors estimated I wouldn't live to see twenty-one.

But hey, what can you do? That's life for ya. It's almost like God stops you before you're conceived and asks you to pick a straw and you don't see if you got a short or long straw until your results are shown through some event in your life. Some people get the long straws and become models and actors and things of the like. Some people get the medium straw, and live a mediocre, middle-class life. Maybe with marriage and kids, if they're into that.

And some people, like me, pull the short straw, and have to live with terminal illness or mental illness. Or both.

God must have a _lot _of short straws in that collection of his.

But no matter the straw I picked, I have to deal with it. And recently, I've decided that moping all day isn't gonna do me any good. So, I decided, that starting that day, July 18th, I'd start living my life while I still had life to live.

But what I'd do in living my life was very, very unclear.

I had started out the door that day, confidence in my stride, my third, external lung in tow behind me. But as I walked into town, my lungs burning moreso than usual in my chest as I stopped to take my seventeenth rest, I first of all cursed myself for not ordering a taxi, and I secondly glanced around and said to myself, rather exasperatedly, "What the hell am I supposed to do?". This seemed to worry an elderly couple sitting a bench away from me, but they did nothing besides stare.

I didn't know if they were staring because of my words or because of my oxygen tank. I'm betting it was the latter, though.

The only thing that caught my eye was a Starbucks almost directly across the street from me. I was nineteen and I'd never bought coffee from Starbucks. Not once. I always thought it was too expensive. But I was dying. I was dying, and I had money burning a hole in my pocket. I figured, why regret never drinking overpriced coffee on my deathbed? I don't wanna be choking on lung fluid or an inability to breathe and have my last living thought be "oh shit I never tried those five dollar frappucinos".

So I finished catching my breath, gathered my lung, re-gathered my confidence, and walked across the street to the green coffeehouse.

Upon entering the building, the strong scent of espresso and various spices and flavors filled my nostrils, momentarilly hindering my ability to breath in. My choking caught the attention of a few soccer moms who gave me a look of both sympathy and uncomfortableness. Almost as if they were sorry, but not for the fact I was dying of cancer, or sorry for the fact that I can't breathe unless the oxygen is forced up my nose. No, they seemed sorry that they had to look at me. Which also brought in their uncomfortable aura.

This was almost confirmed as they awkwardly "looked away". And by looked away, of course, I mean looking away for two seconds, glancing back, noticing im still looking in their general direction, and looking away again, repeat and repeat ad infinitum.

I decided to walk a bit closer, fixing my glasses as I glanced over the menu. I was hoping the infamous pumpkin spice drinks would be in, but then it hit me that it was mid-July and pumpkins were popular in the fall. Wow, how could that have slipped my mind. I should go get my brain checked, I guessed. And then I laughed silently to myself. Making jokes about my own disease was the only way I knew to make myself feel better.

Maybe laughing at the pain my disease causes will make it less painful.

I fell out of my own almost self-depricatingly joking mindset as I continued to skim over the pumpkin spiceless menu, my eyes falling on the caramel frappucino. I was going to get the large - erm, _Venti?_ - because why not? As aforementioned, my money was burning a hole in my pocket. Though, as the line I'd somehow entered shortened, the hole that had been burning had seemed to ignite a forest fire.

Or was that my lungs?

I laughed again to myself.

No, but I actually think it was my lungs.

That couldn't stop me now, though, because the line was shortening and shortening and the hole burning got larger and my lungs felt shittier as I approached the cashier, trying to memorize the name and my assumed pronunciation of the really, really odd name for their large so that way I didn't screw up my words and embarrass myself.

It was finally my turn, I realized as the person infront of me finally finished their really, really complicated order, part of which involved at least three shots of espresso and way too many extras. I think their grand total was around the double digits. This place was ridiculous.

The cashier smiled at me, and I almost felt myself melt. But that coulda also been my lungs, couldn't it have? No... usually my lungs didn't make me blush and feel mushy.

It was a smile. Jesus Christ, I needed to calm down.

"What can I get for you today?" he asked, and his voice, I think, sealed the deal on my first love-at-first-sight encounter. Which also happened to be a very, very gay first love-at-first-sight encounter. I fumbled over my words as I tried to order.

"A... A la-... Venti? Veenti?" I tried to pronounce, eventually giving up and moving on to specify the kind of frappucino I wanted. And he gave me the grand total of $5.25, and I accordingly handed over that ammount, and then he asked for my name. And I know it's standard Starbucks procedure, as many people I associate with have told me this before, but hearing him repeat my name, Matthew, in that voice of his made my heart either skip a beat or speed up or both.

And then he turned around and began to work on my expensive ass drink, and i moved to sit at a table close to the counter, because it honestly felt like my chest was caving in on itself.

It took no more than one minute before he called my name, and I took a deep breath (or, as deep a breath as I could take with my third lung forcing me to breathe in a certain rhythm) and stood, walking toward the counter.

He handed me the coffe - which was very, very cold - and my fingertips brushed the tops of his fingers, and my face lit up like a red Christmas light, and he chuckled. After a moment, he glanced back at the register with the now non-existing line, and he held one finger up to me, obviously signaling me to wait.

So I did.

Burning lungs and all.

And he came back after a moment, and he handed me a slip of paper. I blinked at it, confused, before he told me I forgot to take my receipt.

I never took receipts, but I figured he was just trying to be thorough, so I took it, glancing over it as if I were inspecting it as I muttered a "thank you" and turned to sit back down at the table I'd been at before.

And then I caught something not printed by the register. It was at the bototm, and it was small, but it was a set of numbers.

His number, I assumed, since he'd written "call me" signed with his name, Alfred, after it.

And I felt my heart speed up again.

And, as I sipped my coffee (which was amazing, by the way), I read over that number over and over, before pulling out my phone and entering him as a contact.

I may or may not have taken a creeper pic of him for his contact image.

And, as I finished that coffee, I lingered for a while. Half because my lungs were sucky and I didn't feel like getting up and having to breathe with more effort, and half because I wanted to be physically near him as long as possible.

It seemed that not staying home and sulking had more benefits than I'd first assumed.


	2. Chapter 2

I sat on the edge of my bed, kicking my feet just slightly, my phone strewn to the side along with my wallet and other small belongings I'd had on me when I went out. The receipt remained among the items, fluttering just slightly in the slight wind given off by my fan, though it was pinned down conveniently by my wallet.

I'd been home for at least two hours and I hadn't so much as unlocked my phone, let alone looked at his contact, text, or call him. I was too scared, to be honest. Besides, he was probably still at work. Starbucks was open pretty late, wasn't it? How long did the day shift last?

I lied back on my bed, allowing myself to close my eyes as I dropped my arms to rest on either side of my head. This was all a lot harder than I'd bargained for. Maybe it wasn't meant to be. I'd never been in love with someone, and I'd definately never had someone give me their number like that. Especially at the first meeting! It was crazy.

I didn't know what one should say when they text first, which is the main reaosn I hadn't dared to venture to my phone. I knew if I didn't think it out thoroughly, I'd end up writing something stupid and embarrassing myself. I didn't want to do that. This might be my only shot.

I took a deep breath, forcing myself to sit up as I slowly groped around for my phone, refusing to look. I was dying, I again figured as I finally glanced at my phone - which I happened to be holding upside-down. If I was dying, what did I have to lose? If I screwed this up, I knew it wasn't meant to be. It wasn't that complicated.

I tapped his contact and hit the little chat bubble, and stared at the new, blank slate, the thing to indicate where I should be typing beginning to blink as they keyboard slid into view.

This was it.

I, Matthew Williams, was going to text my first ever romantic interest.

My heart sped up and air got abnormally hard to take in as I made my shakey fingers type a simple "Hey, it's me, that guy from the coffee shop."

And then I hit send.

And then I realized that "coffee shop" was way too vague. I met him at a Starbucks. A goddamn _Starbucks._ This wasn't like I met him at Dunkin Donuts or anything. Who calls Starbucks just a "coffee shop"?

I huffed and threw my phone.

Which was a shitty idea, I realied as soon as I'd done it.

Today was just full of regrets. Especially in the past two minutes.

I couldn't dive for my phone, I realized, because of good ol' third lung, so I just watched as it slammed against my wall with wide eyes filled with terror. Once it landed on the hardwood of my bedroom floor, I gave myself to calm from my panic before slowly walking for what could possibly be its grave.

I reached its possible final resting spot, and found it screen side-down, and realized the situation I was in was now sort of a Schrodinger's Cat situation. My screen was both broken and not broken until I picked it up.

Did I dare set my phones fate in stone?

I realized, as I stared at the phone, the internal Schrodinger's Cat dialogue continuing, that this was all the dumbest internal commentary I'd done, and I bent down to pick up the phone, the sudden decrease in height doing wonders for the lungs that I forgot were pieces of shit that took air in.

Though, the lung relief didn't last for long, mainly because my screen was almost shattered in a corner of the screen, but also because a notification lit up the screen and emitted a small bleep through my small room as it did so. It was an iMessage notification.

From Alfred.

I almost threw my phone again, but soon concluded that would be a very, very bad idea.

So, instead, I concluded I'd do what any normal human would do and reply to his text.

Which, by the way, simply read, "haha, hey. you actually texted. sweet. i just got off work."

Exactly like that. No caps. None. I can't believe this.

It was horrendous. It was a disgrace.

But it fit him, from what I could tell, and therefore everything else I said is void and it's actually really cute.

And I felt as if we immediately hit it off from there.

The conversation essentially went like this:

"Wow, that was a quick text-back."

"haha not really. i dont think so anyway"

"Huh. Well I classify it as quick."

"your reply was much quicker than mine. what made you reply so quickly? eagerly awaiting my response? ;-)"

"Psh. No. Maybe. I sent the initial text and threw my phone. I happened to receive your text as I broke the Schrodingers Cat syndrome that had overtaken my phone."

"schrodingers cat?"

And thats when I felt just a bit of hope slip. Who didn't know what Schrodinger's cat was?

Okay, to be fair, a lot of people probably didn't know what it was. But that's way beside the point.

After I explained Schrodinger's Cat to him, and he asked many, many questions, our conversation essentially went on like it had before, until I realized it was very, very late and I shouldn't be awake.

As we were finishing our oddly in-depth conversation on the controversy of oddly flavored ice creams (don't even ask), I decided to mention something about how I needed to head off to sleep.

That was the first text to not be immediately marked as "read", which was sort of odd, but considering it was close to midnight it was also understandable. I stood after waiting for a moment, deciding to change into my pajamas. I wasn't going to sleep in the clothes I went out in. Who does that?

Okay, I have.

Only on occasion, though. Only on nights I'm exceptionally lazy and I also don't feel like fiddlng with my lungs.

Tonight was not one of those nights, though, I decided as I took the little nubs of the oxygen tube out of my nose, taking considerably weaker, shallower breaths as I hurried to strip and change as quick as possible.

I hardly noticed the ding from my phone as I hurried to button my shirt, already becoming rather faint from the lack of oxygen going to my brain and also to everywhere else, but I got the nubs back in my nose just in time to not lose consciousness. I slid to my knees, holding the tube and nubs in place as I took the deepest breaths my third lung would allow (again, set breathing pattern), and I lingered much longer than normal.

That is, until I heard my phone ding again.

Not really feeling like standing quite yet, I groped around the bed (which was now about eye-level, being I was on the floor), finally finding my phone, unlocking it and reading his texts.

And I would have shouted out in joy if my lungs were working with me.

"alright. goodnight, matthew. i really enjoyed talking to you."

"maybe if you swing by tomorrow, i can make you another frappe... on the house this time though ;-)"

I felt a grin creep onto my lips as my breathing finally regulated itself, and I reread the text at least ten times before slowly rising to my feet.

He was going to... buy me coffee tomorrow? Did this count as a date? Well, he'd be working...but it was still coffee! Still coffee he was making for me and still coffee he was buying for me! (Isn't that what on the house meant? Regardless.)

With joy filling my senses for the first time in a long time, I cleared my bed of my other scattered items from earlier, set my alarm for 9 AM per the usual, hooked my third lung's tubes up to a breathing machine made for sleeping, and set my phone on my bedside table all before settling into my unusually warm, snuggly blankets.

Tomorrow was going to be a good, good day.

I woke the next morning, earlier than I'd set my alarm for. Eight thirty in the morning... it seemed so much earlier than it actually was.

The day before, I hadn't went to starbucks until three or four. I had a long period of time to waste until I could head down to starbucks for some coffee and to see... _him_. Just the knowledge I'd get to see him again made butterflies fly around in my stomach.

I sat up in bed, confidence pretty much consuming my being that morning as I did my morningly routine of re-hooking my third lung's tubes back to my usual, mobile third lung. There was seemingly nothing that could stop me today. Nothing. The only possible thing that could screw anything up would be either boredom finally taking its toll and killing me on the couch as I'd inevitably end up watching re-reruns of shows I've seen far too many times, or my lungs finally saying "vive la cancer fuck you" and quitting on me meer minutes before I was to walk out my front door.

Fingers crossed that didn't happen.

As I grabbed the handle of my third lung and began to lug it out of my bedroom and to the kitchen to grab some breakfast, I began to re-think everything I'd just thought to myself. Wouldn't vive la cancer be an oxy moron in that context? Long live cancer? It was much more of a cruel joke than I was used to, especially from myself. I mean, it was funny, I'm not going to lie. The irony makes it perfect. But it was darker than any joke I'd ever made to myself.

Yet, as I poured my corn-flakes, I realized it was actually kinda good. I felt like the sooner I accepted my illness all the way, the sooner I'd be completely happy with living while I still could. Besides... there were added special perks now.

I grinned as I grabbed my bowl of cereal and made my way over to the couch, plopping down as soon as I set my bowl down and grabbing the remote.

I glanced at the clock on the DVR as I turned my TV on. Eight fourty-two.

I decided I'd leave for Starbucks at 3:30.

That meant I only had five hours and fourty eight minutes to waste before I could see Alfred again.


End file.
